Ash and Cinders
by Megami.Ze
Summary: "He stands on the battle front, hand poised to the sky; armored in white. His flames have burst forth and left nothing but ash and smouldering cinders." Angst. Response to challnge with mebh, Thousand Sunny Lyon and Disastergirl.


_A/N: This is a response to the prompt by _**mebh**_, which was a Kimblee/Roy angst fic that is from 500 to 1000 words in length (I have failed T.T mine is 1 064)with the theme of: "What is mercy?"  
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_Please, please, _please _check out the works of all those who are taking part: _**Thousand Sunny Lyon**, **Disastergirl **and **mebh**. _Some are not up yet, but please check them out when they are. They will be awesome, I know it._

_I hope you enjoy, because I'm still conflicted. ;P  
_

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**Ash and Cinders**

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_"Alchemists as a whole, we really are horrible creatures, aren't we?"_

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The desert sands are deceptively white.

It tries to hide the murder, the hell beneath it; the sins of monsters and demons.

He wonders where he lies within the ranks of the atrocities committed here.

His scarred and weathered boots settle into the sand and his feet within them throb from standing. The crate he sits on is hard and splintered and his back aches in protest. His body is dusty and sodden with sweat.

His gloves are pristine and white, and that fact alone might as well be burning him.

He keeps his heavy eyes downcast to the sand because he cannot bear to keep them level; keep his head up high. If he does that he can see the horizon, the skyline, and he will see the burning buildings; his doing. He thought he could handle it; it was for the good of the country after all. His flames were a gift, a promise, a trust that had been forged; he would use them only for his country. Surely this was still for his country?

His foot shifts and Roy can see darkness beneath the footprint. His guts twists as he leans over and brushes aside the sand to reveal the darker sand beneath it.

Congealed blood within the sand; under the white.

Bile rises to his throat as he covers his mouth with his hand, to repress the urge to vomit. The palm of his glove is damp against his cracked lips. He wrenches his arm away and yanks off the glove, only to see blood soaked into the fabric; a nameless, innocent Ishvallan, whose blood is all but rotting in the sand beneath his feet, beneath the Amestrian camp.

Roy crumples the tainted glove in his hand and forces himself to look away. He longs for a distraction, a mercy to his mind.

He finds one in her, Master Hawkeye's daughter, who sits across from him on the dead remains of a tree. She doesn't look up and Roy thinks she can't even see him. She has been lost in herself for weeks now and Roy keeps telling himself that it isn't his fault.

The glove weighs down in his hand.

A shadow looms over him, moving aside until polished boots are standing beside him and Roy has to look up at the expectant presence. It is the Crimson Alchemist: a monster in uniform.

"Mustang." The way the alchemist says his name brings a tremor to Roy's spine. "You should be on the front lines. Your shift isn't over." There is no emotion in his voice, only impatience. His blue irises are tinged with smoke and they hold a gaze as hard as slate. A tendril of his pitch hair blows in the stinging desert-gale.

Roy's fists clench at the overbearing presence of the Crimson Alchemist; his uniform is pressed and clean; his skin ivory and unblemished; a violent streak of shocking scarlet, smudged against his cheek, like it was intentional.

"I need a break," comes his weak reply. Roy swears his voice is caught by the sand in the air, rather than in the back of his aching throat.

He cannot stand to be in the field any longer; he can still see the burning corpses behind his eyelids.

"Tch." Kimblee's hands are in his pockets and he looks upon Roy with the utmost of despair; eyes calculating. He looks like a political figurehead, rather than a murderer of thousands. "How disappointing."

Roy cannot escape the irrational anger that fills his blood.

"Get out of my face, Crimson," he spits. He refuses to look at the alchemist as he speaks to him. He's afraid to look into the eyes of the Crimson Alchemist; to see the lack of _anything_.

Kimblee ignores him, as if Roy is nothing more than a peasant, or an Ishvallan who he had killed that morning. He steps in front of Roy and looks down on him, like a god.

"Truly disappointing, Flame Alchemist," he repeats, his voice as steady as his stature; as his emotions; as his hands when he takes lives. "You have been blessed!" His hands leave his pockets and raises into the air; an exclamation to the heavens. Roy flinches with every word. "Blessed with a beautiful artistry! With _fire_! A truly glorious gift!" Kimblee's hands are still held up to the sky as his mirth dissolves into the dry air.

Roy's hands shake.

"Yet you deny it..." His words weigh down on Roy's shoulders like boulders. "Because of something as pathetic as _emotions_." Kimblee's boots sink into the sand as he walks away, head held high. "Truly pathetic, Mustang."

"-would you rather I be like you! Kill people because I simply _can! _Kill _innocent _people! Because I was _told_ to!" Roy seethes, disdain seeping from his words. His fury is as dangerous and volatile as his flames.

Kimblee turns calmly and looks back at Mustang with a smile that is bone-chilling. The wind whips at his hair again and Roy wishes it would have drowned out the alchemist's following words along with it.

"And you don't?"

Roy's body seizes and it feels as if a part of him has fallen through the earth; to join the corpses beneath the sand. Kimblee laughs in quiet triumph.

"Don't act so high and mighty, Flame. We're the same!" He exclaims gleefully. Roy's head drops into his shaking hands. Kimblee departs; his stride calm and full of distinction, and his smile, wider than ever, frames a glittering red shard between his teeth.

Roy shudders feebly as he is left in the screaming wind, sand stinging against his face.

There is another presence before him now, and he looks up, almost afraid to do so, with drowning eyes to see her.

A merciful deity covered in blood and dust.

"Don't believe a word he says."

And the intensity of the anger in her eyes rivals that of the desert heat.

x

He stands on the battle front, hand poised to the sky; armored in white.

His flames have burst forth and left nothing but ash and smouldering cinders.

_He will not believe a word_.

But the Crimson Alchemist is behind him, smile as wide as he fears, and the word "magnificent" falls from the alchemist's lips.

And with every snap and roar of his fire, Roy Mustang is being burnt away, leaving only the Flame Alchemist in its wake.

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_A/N: My take on 'mercy' is vastly different to the others' who are involved. I chose to look at mercy from Roy's point of view, and I believe Riza is that mercy in this context. In my opinion, Riza is his mercy from the horrible world and his crime. She is his excuse and his comfort.  
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_Please review and tell me your thoughts. I am still on the fence about this piece.  
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